I’m not allowed to go in. I try to go for the door handle but my mother-in-law blocks it. I quickly back away. The old customs must be followed, my mother-in-law says. A man observing his wife in labor? That’s not our way. I tell her I want to be there for emotional support but she shakes her head. A few meters down the corridor I can see a couple of nurses observing us. One of them approaches and asks if everything is okay. I assure her that all is fine. In front of me, my mother-in-law remains barring the door. A dark little woman of stubborn disposition, her small eyes are gleaming with unflinching resolve. I’m not going in. Not on her watch. There’s no other option but to back down and admit defeat.
So, I walk back dejectedly to the waiting room. In my mind thinking of this special moment that has been taken away from me, transition into fatherhood, a momentous event in any man’s life, I really wanted to be there.
“You were not allowed in too?” A man sitting near the door says when I walk in to the waiting room.
“Apparently it’s not our way,” I say, not even trying to hide my anger.
“Mother-in-law?”
“Yes, mother-in-law.”
The man laughs. “Oh well, we are in the same boat. Your first child?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“This is my third,” the man says.
“How is it?” I ask, sitting on a bench opposite his.
“Fatherhood you mean? There’s nothing like it I tell you. It’s a bit overwhelming though. When my wife told me I was going to be a father, I almost had a heart attack,” he says and laughs. “But in the end we made it work. It’s never a smooth ride but you will be all the better for it.”
The man draws out his phone and shows me pictures of his daughter, a young girl of seven.
“She’s always top of her class,” the man says with a bright smile. A couple sitting nearby looks at him enviously.
The smell of medicine hangs in the air. From the eastern side of the large white building comes the low rumble of vehicle traffic. In the corridor nurses in white uniforms walk by back and forth. Two malaria awareness charts hang shabbily on the wall.
We discuss a lot of issues: work, the economy, sports. He’s deeply unimpressed by his current club coach. Five games lost in a roll. Every match day has become stressful, he says. The current coach suffers from a severe lack of talent and imagination. He’s praying that in the coming days the club owners will finally come to their senses and sack him.
The new currency, whose value is plummeting, is another thing which is giving him sleepless nights. How are we going to survive? If things continue like this, he says, he will have no option but to go abroad. The conversation goes on for a while, but because we are men, we eventually run out of things to discuss and fall silent. I’m dangerously teetering close to sleep when I hear a familiar voice calling me. I raise my head and see my mother-in-law standing at the waiting room entrance. She’s smiling brightly.
“They are waiting for you mukwasha,” she says.
Everyone in the waiting room turns. My companion gives me a warm smile.
It is said that while we are asleep most of the dreams we experience are negative dreams. Consequently, when we wake up, we are likely to remember these bad dreams more than we do the good ones. I believe that this is the same with moments we experience while we are awake. We are deeply affected by our bad experiences. It takes a truly special event, if it is a good one, for it to be ingrained in our minds. For me, the birth of my first child is one of them. It’s quite hard for me to explain how I feel as I walk towards the delivery room. The moment, as with many things involving deep emotions, is beyond any expression by words. When we reach the delivery room the door is slightly open. Inside, I find Theresa holding our baby.
“It’s a boy,” she says.
I try to say something but my voice is choked with emotions.
“Have you decided on a name yet?” my mother-in-law says.
“Hope,” I say. “His name is Hope.”
#
News travel fast. Whenever something happens in our neighborhood: an accident, a fight, an affair brought to light, everyone will have heard the news by the end of the day. We arrive back home just after midday, and within minutes, the neighbors begin trooping in to congratulate us. In an amazing show of Ubuntu, some even come bearing gifts.
“You are a man now,” Shuro, a man who lives in a house facing us says, handing me a pack of disposable diapers. “Later today I’m going to take you to the bar so that we can celebrate and get drunk.”
“Theresa will kill you,” my friend James says jokingly.
It’s a bright moment. Everyone in the room bursts out laughing.
Theresa’s mom stays for a month, helping us out. Theresa and the baby thrive under her watchful eyes. When she finally returns to her rural home, her absence is immediately felt. Taking care of the baby turns out to be more demanding than I had ever imagined. Sometimes, I find myself being awakened at midnight or at one o’clock in the morning.
“You can’t keep snoring there while I care for Hope all by myself. He’s crying. Come and help me,” Theresa says.
A lot of changes occur around the house. I’m not allowed to play loud music anymore. Theresa becomes stricter with the budget. Going out to eat as a couple or just to have fun and hang out with friends becomes a thing of the past.
We are having dinner one evening. Theresa has just put Hope in bed.
“I want Hope to be baptized,” she says.
“When?” I ask with a sense of apprehension. I haven’t been going to church for a while.
“This coming Sunday,” Theresa says, observing me.
I remain silent and continue eating my food.
“You don’t seem happy about it,” Theresa says.
“It’s okay,” I say reassuringly. “I just didn’t expect it to be this soon.”
Sunday turns out to be a sunny and calm day. Beside the rocky hill, the small church looks bright and heavenly. The Jacaranda trees in the front yard have begun to bloom, a dozen cars adorn the church car park. People are already singing when we arrive. Pastor Roodza receives us at the door, flanked by his heavy and outspoken wife and the church elder, Mr Dhlamini.
“I was planning to pay you a visit Baba Hope,” Pastor Roodza says. “You have not been coming to church for weeks!”
I try to calm the waters. “I’m sorry Pastor,” I say. “Certain obligations prevented me from coming. I really had no choice in the matter.”
“But Baba Hope, how then can you expect to find grace if you consistently continue to disregard the house of worship?” Pastor Roodza’s wife says.
I look down in shame. I don’t have anything more to say.
The baptism ceremony happens after the church service. Theresa and I walk proudly to the pulpit. Two other couples join us. Mr Dhlamini, the church elder, takes Hope from Theresa’s arms and gently places him in a big gleaming white bowl on top of the pulpit. Pastor Roodza steps forward and begins praying and sprinkling water on Hope who immediately lets out a piercing cry. It quickly becomes an ensemble as other babies quickly join the loud song of distress. Baptism: a Christian sacrament signifying spiritual cleansing and rebirth. Through the windows flows in brilliant afternoon light. The image of the holy son gazes down upon us.
#
It’s a Friday. I’m sitting in a sports bar with James. We have just finished work. A lady wearing a black tight dress walks by. James turns and looks.
“Stop,” I say to him.
“What? There’s no harm in looking,” James says and sips his beer.
My phone rings. I eagerly draw it out of my pocket thinking it’s the bank notification for my salary but it turns out to be an advert from my mobile network provider.
“You know, I have been meaning to ask,” James says. “You always wear this mask of being straight and proper. You mean to tell me that since you got married to Theresa you have never been with anyone else?”
“Why would I be?” I ask.
“What about variety, man, what about variety? You can’t mean Theresa satisfies all of your needs.”
“I’m happy,” I say, returning my phone back into my side pocket.
“You are deceiving yourself, men are polygamous by nature. No man can ever be happy with one woman,” James says.
“You are the one who is deceiving yourself, James,” I shoot back at him. “These random women you sleep with, one day you are going to get one of them pregnant.”
James grins, picks his beer and takes a sip.
“You don’t say,” I say in surprise. “When did this happen?”
“About a year ago,” James says.
“Does she know?” I say, referring to his wife.
James picks up his beer again and takes a sip.
I let out a nervous laugh.
“I got sloppy, it will never happen again,” James says and gestures the bar maid to bring him another beer.
More people begin to come in to the sports bar. Friday evening, dawn of the weekend. The men and women coming into the bar look bright and expectant. Seduction is the theme of the evening. The weekend ritual has just begun.
#
The sound of Theresa’s broom flows softly towards me. Another calm morning, the sun is already up. I’m reading my third email when Hope wakes up. My first impulse is to call Theresa, but I finally decide not to. I finish reading my email, leave the small reading desk and walk to his crib.
“Hello, big guy,” I say and lift him from his crib.
Hope’s bright gentle eyes gaze at me. It feels nice to hold him. I can smell the baby powder on him. His soft body feels warm. I place him on the bed and put his toys in front of him. This pleases him immensely; he giggles and makes playful sounds. Of all his toys, he has taken a liking to the little red truck, with its two yellowish headlights which glow when he rolls it on the bed. Theresa walks into the bedroom a few minutes later, she finds me on my laptop, Hope on the bed, his toys rattling. The expression on her face makes me pause.
“What’s wrong,” I ask, puzzled.
“You left him alone on the bed?”
I quickly turn and look at Hope who’s playing with his toys. He looks so calm, so innocent.
“He wouldn’t have fallen, Theresa. I was keeping an eye on him. I know how to take care of a child.”
Theresa looks at me. “Do you?” she says.
“What do you mean by that?” I say, struggling to control my rising anger.
Theresa sighs and walks to the bed. Hope, who has been unaware of her presence, beams when he notices her.
“Come, my darling, come,” Theresa says and gently lifts him from the bed.
“So you haven’t noticed it yet, have you?” she says.
I look at her blankly.
“Tsitsi spoke her first words about two months ago,” Theresa says. Tsitsi is a child from church, born a week after Hope.
“When does a child start to speak the first words?” I ask.
“I looked it up. Twelve to eighteen months,” Theresa says.
“But Hope is seventeen months,” I point out.
“I knew you would say that,” Theresa says.
“But really Theresa, I don’t think we should panic yet.”
Theresa leaves the bedroom with Hope, leaving me staring at an empty space.
#
My conversation with Theresa signals a new chapter in our life. I begin to sense a tension between us, a tension which has never been there. As a young parent, it’s difficult to accept that there may be something wrong with your child. It’s something that is unsettling, something that can suck all joy from your life. I begin to intentionally spend more time with Hope, talking to him. A friend from church recommends some children’s books which I buy and read to him. But all my efforts seem otiose. I just can’t seem to be able to engage him. Sometimes, during the reading sessions, I raise my head and discover that Hope has fallen asleep or crawled away. His indifference pains me. I find myself left on the other side of an emotional vast chasm, trying desperately to reach out to him. A month passes without any progress in Hope’s speech development. At eighteen months, he’s still cooing and babbling. Theresa visibly loses weight with worry. Hope’s speech problems become a dark cloud that hovers over our home.
On certain days, I leave home to escape from it all. My friend James, who I spend most of my time with, venting, expresses sympathy for my troubles.
“So, how’s Theresa doing?” he asks one afternoon. We are sitting in a small bar near his house, watching a premier league match.
“She’s stressed. I’m worried about her.”
“You don’t look so well yourself. You need to relax. Let me buy you a beer.”
“No,” I say shaking my head.
James ignores this and tells the bar maid to bring us two bottles of beer.
“One won’t kill you. Trust me, you need it. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? It looks depressing man. It makes me want to cry. Just have one, come on, just have one,” James says.
I end up having more than one. In fact, I get drunk, terribly drunk. James and I remain in the small bar until midnight. For once in a long while, I’m able to space out and relax. It feels good, not to worry about Hope’s speech problems, about work, about everything.
When I reach home, I find Theresa sitting on the bed, a Bible in her hands. I try to kiss her but she turns her face away.
“Where were you?” she says.
I mumble something and fall on my side of the bed. I quickly fall asleep.
#
“Hope is fine. His speech development has been a bit slow but the most important thing is that he’s communicating, in his own childly way.”
Hope is humming and waving his small arms. Now and again, he pauses and pulls at Theresa’s blouse.
“So, when can we expect him to say his first words?” Theresa asks.
The speech language pathologist smiles. “It’s difficult to say. It can happen tomorrow or next week. You just have to be patient,” he says. A squat, balding fellow with little sharp eyes, as he speaks his eyes dash from Theresa to Hope to me and then to Theresa again. It’s pleasantly calm and cool within the small office. Its windows face the hospital’s orchard. I can hear birds singing. The mango, guava and avocado trees look crisp green.
The pathologist’s eyes rest on me again.
“Are there other cases like his?” I ask.
“Plenty,” the pathologist says.
I continue looking at him.
The pathologist maintains his warm countenance.
“You should spend more time communicating with him. That’s how he learns. Reading to him also helps. Hope is fine, I can assure you. There’s another colleague I can refer you to if you want to consult more widely.”
“How long do you think we should wait?” Theresa asks.
“If a month passes without any progress, come back with him,” the pathologist says.
On the way back home, we find ourselves packed tightly in a kombi.
“We should have waited for better transport,” Theresa grumbles.
Hope is humming. I wave to him and he giggles
“What do you think he’s saying?” I ask Theresa.
“He’s singing. He’s a singer this one. He gets that from you,” Theresa says.
An old lady sitting beside us smiles. I’m happy to see Theresa’s wit is back. The power of positive news, vivifying like the first rains. There’s a lot of traffic on the road. An old white kombi passes us. NO AIR BAGS, WE DIE LIKE REAL MEN; it’s written on the back.
“Now, that’s a statement,” a man sitting on a seat in front of us says. Two teenagers sitting beside him laugh loudly.
When you want something badly, when you are desperate for it, sometimes it ends up messing with your mind. And of course there’s also the constant bickering over Hope’s utterings, whether he has said his first word or not. One Saturday afternoon I almost break Theresa’s flower vase whilst rushing to the bedroom. Hope is calling me.
“Ba-ba,” he says.
“Baba!” I say excitedly.
“Ba-ba.”
“Baba! Ba…” I falter.
It’s calm in the bedroom. Hope is sound asleep.
Two weeks pass. The feeling of doubt begins to creep into Theresa and me again. Sometimes I wonder why this is happening to us. Why, after all we have done right, things are turning out this way.
I begin to spend more time with James again, drinking. It’s all I can do to keep it all together. I also stop going to church.
“You can’t continue doing this to me,” Theresa says one Sunday morning.
I’m lying in bed, recovering from a hangover.
“I’m tired Theresa, give me more time.”
Hope who is in his mother’s arms, looks at me. The expression on his face, it’s as if he might say something incredibly intelligent any moment.
“What am I going to say to the pastor?” Theresa says.
“I can’t go today. I’m sorry,” I say.
The truth is I can’t bring myself to go and face other young parents at church, to see other babies talking while Hope struggles.
Theresa sighs. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m calling mum,” she says.
It’s a Tuesday. The sun is setting. I’m nearing the front yard when I hear my mother-in-law’s voice. She sounds excited. I pause, baffled. It’s only when I enter the kitchen, that’s when it hits me. Hope is talking!
“Na-na,” he says.
For a moment I stand there observing the scene: an elderly woman sitting on the floor, a baby sitting happily before her. Theresa who’s washing dishes on the sink turns and smiles at me.
“Na-na,” Hope says.
The sound of splashing water fills the kitchen. Nana. What the hell does that mean? I wonder. But I’m filled with joy, a joy mixed with a little bit of jealousy. It baffles me that of all the people, it had to be this stubborn little woman Hope said his first word to. I kneel and take his small soft hand into mine. A moment of hope. I can feel the dark cloud lifting.
“Na-na,” Hope says.
—–
Image: Copilot AI remixed